tting on, in hopes of seeing some place where he might get a sight of
the map of the county. So they proceeded in silence, till a sudden turn of
the road brought them to the spire and housetops of the little
agricultural town of Barleyboll. It differed nothing from the ordinary run
of small towns. It had a pond at one end, an inn in the middle, a church at
one side, a fashionable milliner from London, a merchant tailor from the
same place, and a hardware shop or two where they also sold treacle,
Dartford gunpowder, pocket-handkerchiefs, sheep-nets, patent medicines,
cheese, blacking, marbles, mole-traps, men's hats, and other miscellaneous
articles. It was quite enough of a town, however, to raise a presumption
that there would be a map of the county at the inn.

'We'll just put the horses up for a few minutes, I think,' said Sponge,
turning into the stable-yard at the end of the Red Lion Hotel and Posting
House, adding, 'I want to write a letter, and perhaps,' said he, looking at
his watch, 'you may be wanting your dinner.'

Having resigned his horse to his servant, Mr. Sponge walked in, receiving
the marked attention usually paid to a red coat. Mine host left his bar,
where he was engaged in the usual occupation of drinking with customers for
the 'good of the house.' A map of the county, of such liberal dimensions,
was speedily produced, as would have terrified any one unaccustomed to
distances and scales on which maps are laid down. For instance, Jawleyford
Court, as the crow flies, was the same distance from the cross-roads at
Dallington Burn as York was from London, in a map of England hanging beside
it.

'It's a goodish way,' said Sponge, getting a lighter off the chimney-piece,
and measuring the distances. 'From Jawleyford Court to Billingsborough
Rise, say seven miles; from Billingsborough Rise to Downington Wharf, other
seven; from Downington Wharf to Shapcot, which seems the nearest point,
will be--say five or six, perhaps--nineteen or twenty in all. Well, that's
my work,' he observed, scratching his head, 'at least, my hack's; and from
here, home,' he continued, measuring away as he spoke, 'will be twelve or
thirteen. Well, that's nothing,' he said. 'Now for the horse,' he
continued, again applying the lighter in a different direction. 'From here
to Hardington will be, say, eight miles; from Hardington to Bewley, other
five; eight and five are thirteen; and there, I should say, he might sleep.
That would lea